


our cracking bones make noise

by pocky_slash



Series: shore verse [1]
Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Canon Disabled Character, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 18:25:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4845737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles was going to tell Erik about it all eventually--the accident, the lingering trauma, the myriad ways his life has changed in the aftermath--but he didn't intend to start at midnight after a panic attack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	our cracking bones make noise

**Author's Note:**

> This one took far too long to come together, but it's done! Thanks to pearl_o for the beta ♥ All remaining mistakes are, of course, mine. Title from the song "Breakable" by Ingrid Michaelson.

Charles knows that he has made remarkable strides in navigating his trauma. There were people in his support groups who couldn't even get back into a car following their accidents, people whose attacks were much more severe and frequent than his own. He feels for them; he remembers those first few months when everything would be fine right up until it wasn't and he was shaking and vomiting into a trashcan, his senses overcome with the memory of metal ripping apart around him. He feels for them, but he's moved past that, inch by inch--he's worked hard with his therapists and he's worked hard with his own mind and he's made remarkable strides in navigating his trauma.

He has.

And it's important to remind himself of that on nights like this.

He's sitting in the front seat of his car and he knew this was a bad idea. He knew it when he left the lab and he knew it when he came out to the parking lot and he knew it when he slowly, with shaking hands, transferred from his wheelchair into the front seat.

He knew it before he turned the ignition, is what he's saying, and he did it anyway, and now he feels like he's having a heart attack.

He turns the car off, gasping for each breath. He can't even think about getting out of the car yet, instead he focuses on trying to breathe normally, on slowing his heart rate, on backing away from the edge of panic before he spirals downward.

It takes him a full ten minutes to calm himself enough to reassemble his chair and another few minutes before he feels stable enough to move into it. His heart still feels like it's going to beat its way out of his chest.

Remarkable strides in navigating his trauma. Yeah, right.

It's almost midnight. The lab was empty when he left. It will probably take close to an hour for a taxi to get out here. Moira's in Virginia, Raven's in the city. There's an obvious solution to this, of course, but Erik's getting up early to go see his kids in the morning and, more to the point, Charles isn't sure he's ready for Erik to see him like this.

It doesn't seem like he's going to have much of a choice.

He moves slowly as he returns to the lab, hoping to bump into someone, that one of his labmates remembered a last minute project or forgot a book on their bench. He's just as alone as he was when he left, though, and before long he's back at his desk, staring at the phone there.

He eventually picks it up and dials. Erik picks up on the second ring.

"What's wrong?" he manages to ask, groggy and alarmed both, and Charles feels like a heel.

"It's--nothing," Charles says. "It's--I'm sorry, you need to get up early, it's nothing, I'm sorry."

He has to ask for help. He knows that. People have been telling him that for years, he has to ask for help, and if there's anyone in the world who would be willing to help him, it's Erik.

"It's not nothing or you wouldn't have called in the middle of the night," Erik says, sounding slightly more awake. "What's wrong?"

Charles closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. Maybe he can just sleep in the lab.

"I know it's late and I normally wouldn't, um." He swallows. "Can I get a ride?"

"Of course," Erik says. Charles hears the bedsprings creak over the line, the shuffling of Erik getting up. "Where are you?"

Charles breathes out all at once and blinks against the grateful tears that are threatening.

"The lab," he says. "Thank you, I--thank you."

"Don't worry about it," Erik says. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"Thank you," Charles says again, because he doesn't know what else to say.

Fifteen minutes until Erik arrives, probably closer to twelve with no traffic this late at night. That leaves about ten minutes for Charles to pull himself together, calm himself down, settle his nerves enough for the conversation he imagines is going to follow this ride home.

He was hoping he could put that conversation off a little bit longer.

Back outside, Charles retrieves his bags from his car and waits by the curb at the entrance Erik has visited before. He concentrates on his movements, on checking he has everything he needs. He concentrates on the little things and his pulse slows little by little, his breathing returns to normal. He can still feel anxiety churning his gut and shame warming his skin, but he's no longer about to burst into tears or scream into the night, which is as good as he can manage, given the circumstances.

Erik pulls up to the curb slowly and parks his car, then exits and comes around to where Charles is sitting. He's clearly come straight from bed--he's wearing pajama pants and a hoodie and he didn't bother to brush out his bedhead before jumping into the car. The shame and embarrassment prickle at Charles' skin.

"Is something wrong with your car?" Erik asks, glancing into the parking lot where Charles' car is still sitting in the nearest handicapped spot.

"No," Charles says, unable to offer further explanation. Erik merely looks at him for a moment and then nods, leaning down to pick up Charles' bags.

"I'll put these in the back," he says.

"Thanks," Charles says again and then, haltingly, "I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry about," Erik says.

But there is. Charles doesn't want Erik to see him like this. This isn't someone Erik knows. They've been doing this for about two months now, maybe a little more. Long chats on the phone, dates a few nights a week, Erik in Charles' bed whenever he's not with his kids. Erik knows him as clingy and affectionate, as a little cautious and self-contained. He doesn't know the panic and he doesn't know Charles before--blasé, carefree, loud, loose, and aloof. Once Erik understands the Charles that came before, he'll understand just how damaged Charles is now. Charles won't be able to hide it.

He can't lie, though. He can't pretend he's fine--Erik can see how not fine he is. If he pretends he's fine, that's the end of this. The awkwardness starts, the careful, delicate conversations take over.

He's stopped shaking enough to get into Erik's car, the movements practiced after these past weeks together. He secures his seatbelt and watches as Erik uses his powers to collapse Charles' chair and stow it neatly in the backseat. They'll have about fifteen minutes in the car, all told. Charles doesn't know that it's long enough to have the conversation they need to have, but he does know that if he wants this--Erik, this connection, this relationship they're building--he has to try. 

And he does want it. Fuck. He does.

"You know," he says to Erik, staring out the windshield as Erik buckles himself in, "you've never asked. Not once. Most people, they can hardly keep themselves from asking straight away, but it's been weeks--two months, really--and you've never pressed."

"What?" Erik asks. He starts the car. From the corner of Charles' eye, he sees Erik glance at him, but Charles doesn't move.

"You've seen me naked," Charles says. "You've seen the scars and--" He can _feel_ the penny dropping for Erik. "--and you've never asked."

"You said it was a car accident," Erik says. "I figure if you want me to know more, you'll tell me."

Charles really can't lose Erik. He'll never in a million years find someone else like this.

"It was," Charles says. "I was sixteen. It was the end of June, a couple of weeks after my high school graduation. I was going to start at Harvard in the fall. I was rich and brilliant and had a wonderful future and--stupid. I was very stupid."

"Everyone's stupid when they're sixteen," Erik says lightly, but Charles can hear the tension behind it.

"I was particularly stupid," Charles says. "Particularly...buffered by my own privilege, I suppose. I was out at a party, a sort of start-of-summer party for the teen mutant group I belonged to. There was a mob of boys protesting outside the campground, Generation Purity?"

"Friends of Humanity Junior," Erik says shortly.

"Precisely," Charles says. "But they always protested anytime we had a publicly announced event, so I thought nothing of it. The party went late--it was dark when I decided to leave, as it was finally winding down. By then, the picket signs were gone and they were just sitting in their cars. I ignored them and got in my own and headed home. I took back roads because it was a nice night. I kept getting distracted by how many stars I could see peeking through the trees. I had walked through a group of people who wanted me dead and hadn't paid them one iota of attention, hadn't worried for my own safety, hadn't thought to so much as look at their faces or focus on what kinds of cars they drove. I have a bloody eidetic memory, but it doesn't matter much if I'm not looking at something in the first place, does it?"

Erik is quiet. Charles takes a deep breath and squeezes his shaking hands. He's not going to go back there. He won't let himself. He hasn't gone back there while telling the story in too long to backslide now.

"I drove along these dark back roads, and out of nowhere, a car races up behind me. It was trying to push me off the road, and if I had been older or driving for longer or more aware of what was happening--I panicked."

Another deep breath.

"It felt like it went on for--for hours. It couldn't have been that long. Minutes, I imagine, just a few good rams to my back bumper and I lost control of the car. I skidded off the road and flipped down into a ditch." 

Erik takes a hand off the wheel and hesitates, like he's not sure what to do with it. Charles hesitates as well. Does he want this kind of comfort? If Erik holds his hand, he'll feel the way Charles is shaking, he'll feel Charles' palms sweating, he'll feel Charles' pulse racing.

He takes Erik's hand anyway. He wants to, weaknesses be damned.

"I panicked at first. I woke my best friend up miles away, screaming out in fear and pain, but I was too incoherent to do much more than scare the life out of her and send her sobbing to her mother to call to the police. I managed to get a better hold of myself and catch another telepath who was still at the party. She was able to call 911 and they cut me out of the car and got me to the hospital, but the damage was already done."

The drive continues in silence. Erik's grip on Charles' hand doesn't waver, although Charles imagines it makes driving difficult. Maybe not, with Erik's mutation. Either way, he appreciates the connection, the anchor to the here and now when the terror of back then is still sharp in the back of his throat, bitter adrenaline still threatening to throw him into a full attack at any moment. 

Next to him, Charles feels Erik's mind carefully considering his next action, ordered, measured, and steady even in its unsteadiness. Charles watches the green glow of the dashboard clock tick forward one minute and then two.

"Did they ever catch them?" Erik eventually asks.

"No," Charles says, with a calm he doesn't have to fake. He's long come to terms with what happened to him and why, with the teenage folly that lead to all of this. He's unprepared, then, for the spike of fury that temporarily overwhelms the car, hot and suffocating, sharp around the edges. Remarkably, it's only the tightening of Erik's grip and the set of his jaw that give away the wave of emotion.

"Are you serious?" Erik asks. His words are clipped.

"They found the car abandoned," Charles says. "It was filled with Generation Purity propaganda, signs and things, fast food wrappers. The car was registered to an old woman who had been in a home for years. A rotating crew of young men, students of her son, periodically used the car to run errands for her and keep up her home. The police investigated, but there were dozens of boys who knew where the key was kept and none of them were talking. It could have been any of them."

Erik doesn't move, but even though the cloud of rage has dissipated, Charles can tell he's unsatisfied with that answer.

"I think they got in over their head," Charles tells him, stroking the back of Erik's hand with his thumb. "I think--I think they targeted me because I was driving an expensive car. I think they wanted to scare me, maybe wreck my car and inconvenience me. I think they panicked when they saw what happened. They weren't much older than I was."

"Don't say that like it excuses them," Erik says. "Don't--that's all the more reason for them to tell someone, for them to stop to help--" 

The wave of anger comes back, and Charles can taste the adrenaline in the back of this throat again, can feel his heart starting to beat faster at Erik's mental image of that night, at Erik's impotent fury that anyone would leave someone-- _Charles_ \--abandoned to die in a car wreck, that they wouldn't _help_ that the authorities _did nothing_ , that Charles, beautiful, brilliant, stubborn Charles who has become so important to him, was almost lost--

Charles pulls his hand back and clasps his fingers together, resting his hands in his lap and throwing up his shields.

"Erik, _please_!" he says, a little more breathless, a little louder, a little more desperate than he means to.

Startled, Erik's own shields go up more firmly. 

"Sorry, I--" Erik starts to say, then closes his mouth. 

Another minute, two, three flick by on the dashboard clock.

"It's okay," Charles finally tells him when the panic has retreated again. "It's okay. I'm...flattered." He swallows and looks over at Erik with something approximating a watery smile. Erik glances away from the road long enough to take it in. "It's just...the end of this story is that in addition to the physical injuries, I was diagnosed with, ah--" He swallows. It's so silly to get hung up on this. He has no problem reciting the details of his medical diagnoses, his physical ailments. He can list them all with clinical efficiency and a joke, but when it comes to this, he clams up. He knows all the academic background--the effects of trauma, the ACE study, the physical changes in the brain that cause these reactions. He knows he shouldn't be embarrassed, that mental illness is no different than physical illness.

Still, there's the quiet voice in his head that won't stop telling him that he's _smarter_ than this, that maybe if he was stronger or better or wanted it more, he could put this behind him. That people look at him differently, think of him differently. That Erik, whom Charles is falling in love with, will think less of him if Charles puts it into words.

He takes a deep breath.

"I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder," he says, and chances another glance over at Erik. Erik hasn't reacted to the words. "And I'm mostly--it was bad, especially right after, but it was years ago now, and I'm mostly fine. But sometimes, when I'm tired or stressed out, when I have a lot on my mind or when I'm thinking about it too much or--I don't bloody know, when Mercury is in retrograde, out of nowhere, I'll--have an attack."

Erik is still unmoving, staring out at the road as they move through the quiet streets and finally turn into Charles' complex.

"That's what happened tonight," Charles says, perhaps unnecessarily. "That's how it goes. I--I get in my car to drive at night and I'm back there. And I panic. I can't help it, and I can't--usually I call my sister or my best friend or even a taxi, but it was so late and Moira is doing an internship in Virginia and Raven is away at school."

Erik pulls into a space in front of Charles' townhouse and puts the car into park. Charles watches him set the parking brake and turn off the lights and finally turn the key in the ignition. He pulls the keys out and shifts to slide them into the center pocket of his hoodie. Then he turns and looks at Charles again.

There's nothing on his face that Charles couldn't read from his posture and the background hum of his emotions, but he reaches across the center island, tentatively, his hand hovering just shy of Charles' cheek. He doesn't go any further, and it takes Charles a beat too long to realize Erik is waiting for permission. Charles pulled away from Erik's touch earlier, and he's waiting for permission to touch again.

Charles swallows against the lump in his throat and nods.

Erik very gently cups Charles' cheek, stroking his thumb across Charles' temple. He doesn't say anything for another moment, and then, "There's nothing wrong with it. There's nothing wrong with you. I'm happy to help."

Charles closes his eyes and breathes deeply, noisily.

"It's just--" His voice breaks. Horrified, he clears his throat and tries again, opening his eyes, as much as he'd like to hide from the strength of Erik's gaze. "It's just that I didn't want you to see me this way, I suppose. It's difficult, sometimes, to be seen a real person. People see my wheelchair and they fill in the blanks about my difficult life and my trauma and my disability. And you've never, ever thought that, not the way people normally do, and--I suppose I don't want to lose that. I don't want you to know, to see what I really am or to--think less of me. Or better of me. I don't want your pity or to be your martyr, I just want to be...."

He trails off. His heart is thumping wildly in his chest and he's already said far more than he intended. Erik is still cradling his cheek, but hasn't moved otherwise.

"I'm not saying anything because there's a lot I want to say," Erik says quietly. "And I can't--I want to make sure I say it right."

"Okay," Charles says.

Erik stares at him for another moment and then moves forward haltingly. He kisses Charles--hard, resolute, more motivation than comfort. Still, Charles relaxes incrementally and takes Erik's hand from his cheek when they break apart, holding it in his own.

"I'm not good at--I don't--"

Erik scowls in frustration, but Charles understands. Erik's not good at feelings, at talking, at navigating things like this. Erik's not good at having a conversation like this, and he's certainly no better at it after midnight sitting in the car outside of Charles' townhouse when he knows he needs to be up at seven.

"It's okay," Charles says. "We can--it's so late, we can just--"

"No," Erik says. He squeezes Charles' hand so hard it pinches, the flare of pain startling. Erik breathes in and out and then says, "I don't think you're weak. You're so strong, so _smart_ \--and it's not martyring or whatever you said, because you're also kind of an asshole."

Charles can't hold back his laugh, and something about that seems to break the mood. Erik relaxes, loosens his grip on Charles' hand.

"But I...I care about you. A lot." His eyes dart away, and Charles feels himself blush at the implication. "And I would never think less of you for this. And anytime you need anything--a ride or...anything. Someone to sit with you and let you freak out or talk you down or...whatever. I can do that."

"You don't need to say that--you don't need to do that," Charles says. "It's--it's a lot of baggage, I know. Baggage you didn't necessarily sign up for."

Erik laughs this time. "Charles, I'm twenty-five and I have two kids and a failed marriage. I know from baggage."

He's right, of course, but at the same time, Charles can't help but see it as two different issues entirely. Erik's children, his ex-wife, the tragedies in his past--they're no better or worse than Charles' traumas, but they are fundamentally different.

It's a long conversation, though, unpacking all of that, and it's already so late. Charles glances at the dashboard clock out of habit, but the glowing numbers disappeared when the engine turned off. Here in the front of Erik's car, they're illuminated only by the street lights dotting the walkway. Erik parked near to one, Charles notices, near to a cut-out in the curb so that Charles can more directly reach his door. He wonders if Erik noticed it at all, or if it's already instinctual.

"There's more," Charles says, haltingly. "About--I'm not as put together as you think I am. I'm a mess, really, but I've been trying so hard to seem normal--"

Erik takes Charles' face in both his hands this time, kissing him again. Dazed, Charles can't help but think Erik's method of expressing himself when he can't form words isn't half bad.

"I know," Erik says. "I'm not either. Normal or put together or--I have baggage, too, more than just Magda and the kids, I have--you're the first--" He closes his eyes. Once again, Charles can hear the echo of his thoughts, the click-click-click as Erik tries to sort everything into place, figure out his reactions. When he opens his eyes again, he lifts half his mouth in a smile.

"Maybe," he says, still cradling Charles' face in his hands, "it would be best if we went to bed and finished this conversation tomorrow."

"You're not wrong," Charles says, mirroring Erik's half smile. "I'm sorry I made you come out this late. I know you have to be up early."

"There's nothing to be sorry for," Erik says. He releases Charles and unbuckles his seatbelt, then opens his door and goes around back. By the time Charles has collected his things and opened his door, Erik has Charles' wheelchair waiting for him. Soon, Charles is wheeling himself inside, with Erik trailing behind him and Charles' bags bringing up the rear, floating in the air after them. They all neatly land on the table where Charles normally keeps them when he's not working. Charles turns to thank Erik and bid him goodnight, only to realize Erik has already passed him, yawning as he walks back towards the bedroom.

Charles follows him.

"You're staying?" he asks. It's a silly question; Erik's already taken his shoes off and thrown his hoodie onto the chest at the foot of the bed.

"Unless you don't want me to?" Erik freezes, looking embarrassed. "I just assumed--"

"No!" Charles says quickly. "Of course I want you to, I just thought you might want to go back home after all...." He gestures vaguely towards the parking lot.

"I'd like to be with you tonight," Erik says. He still sounds unsure, waiting for Charles to send him away. "I'm going to have to leave before you wake up, but...I can come back tomorrow night?"

Charles nods slowly.

"I'd like that," he admits. Erik grins, then yawns again. "Go to sleep," Charles says. "I need to use the bathroom, but I'll be in eventually. You have an early morning."

"Yeah," Erik says around another yawn, but he crosses to Charles and leans over to kiss him again. Charles stares up at him when he pulls away and bites his lip against saying something premature. He blames it on his still buzzing nerves, on the strangeness and intimacy of the evening.

"Good night," he says instead, and watches Erik crawl into bed--his side of the bed, god, he has a side of the bed--before leaving to take care of his evening bathroom routine.

When he returns, Erik is curled up under the covers and breathing evenly. Charles watches him for just a moment before turning off the lights and pulling himself up into bed. He's barely arranged himself under the covers before he hears a sleepy mumble from Erik, the only warning before Erik's arms loop around him, warm against the cool sheets.

***

When Erik wakes in the early hours of Saturday morning, the sun has yet to peek through the blinds. He groans at the hour, the lack of sleep, the idea of letting go of Charles and getting out of bed. He allows himself just a moment of resentment--he even managed to go to bed fucking early last night, why did he answer his phone--and then steels himself and pushes the blankets off and climbs out of bed. Charles twitches in response, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. Any additional lingering frustration drains out of Erik when he sees that, and he leans over, brushing his lips against Charles' temple.

"Go back to sleep," he whispers, his voice a rough rumble. Charles mumbles something in reply, then closes his eyes again and slips back into sleep.

Erik watches him for a moment, sitting on the edge of the bed. Charles still looks exhausted and pale, but beautiful. He's still getting used to Charles' beauty, still startled by it when his guard is down. He's been attracted to men before--he's maybe slightly more attracted to men than to women--but he's never been able to look his fill, to flip so comfortably into someone's presence and be allowed to catalogue their beauty. He knew Magda's body better than his own, but that was as much from scraping their knees together in preschool and getting into fights together in high school. It was knowledge borne of time and familiarity, the result of decades of friendship more than the five years they were romantically involved.

With Charles, he gets to discover slowly over time, finding new freckles, new expressions, the colors that Charles' eyes change in different kinds of light. It's strange and wonderful and surreal.

He leaves Charles in bed, eventually, and manages a hasty shower while the coffee is brewing. He borrows one of Charles' travel mugs and pauses just long enough to leave a note before he heads out to Magda's place.

_I'll come back around tonight and we can get your car. I'll call and see what you want for dinner. We'll talk more then._

He hesitates for a moment, pen hovering above the paper. There's a part of it that wants to sign it _I love you,_ but that's...insane. They've only been dating a little over eight weeks. He doesn't trust himself to know that this is love, not yet, and Charles deserves better than Erik spouting words he's not sure of in a weak effort to provide comfort.

In the end, he simply signs it _-E_. He leaves it propped against the coffeemaker, where Charles is sure to see it, and then leaves the quiet of Charles' apartment.

Outside, the sun is starting to peek over the trees. The earliest birds are beginning to sing, and Erik gets in his car and begins the quick drive to Magda's house. The coffee is starting to kick in, and with the energy to open his eyes and choose a radio station comes a flood of thoughts about the long, difficult conversation he had with Charles last night. There was so much he wanted to say but couldn't, through a combination of his own timidity, the late hour, and the vastness of the topic at hand.

Knowing Charles has PTSD is not surprising at all. Seeing Charles in a panic, or near enough, is disturbing. Not out of disgust or fear, not because he thinks less of Charles seeing his hands shake and his words slur and stutter, but because Charles is solid. Dependable. Strong. He knows that this doesn't make him any less of those things, but it's unexpected. He knows, obviously, that Charles has endured pain and hardship, but the idea that he's still enduring it, still hurting in a way that Erik can't help...he doesn't like to think about that. Something tightens in his chest at the notion that Charles is in pain and Erik is helpless to stop it.

Even more upsetting is the thought that Charles meant to hide it. They're new, still, and Erik understands that, but he wants to know everything about Charles, good and bad. He doesn't want Charles to think there's a single thing about him that he needs to keep from Erik, that there's anything that might make Erik think he's less. 

But then, by the same token, there are definitely things that Erik has kept quiet. "Baggage," Charles called it, and it's a good enough way to broadly color the bits of Erik's past that he's nervous about, the secrets that Charles doesn't know, his own fears and confusion, kept locked away in the back of his mind where Charles can't find them unless he digs.

Erik sighs as he turns down Magda's street and slows as he nears her driveway. It's too fucking early to think about this.

The twins are eating breakfast when he comes in, still sleepy and in their PJs, but they shriek when he opens the door.

"Daddy!" Wanda calls out, and Pietro drops his sippy cup and rushes over to Erik as fast as his little legs can carry him, his sister toddling after him, both of them raising their arms in the air to be lifted up.

"My babies!" he says, and kneels down to scoop them up in his arms, a practiced move after nearly three years of fatherhood. He kisses them each in turn and allows them to cling to him, babbling happily. Their affection helps melt some of the lingering inner conflict over his night with Charles.

"Hey," Magda says once Erik herds the kids back into the kitchen to finish their breakfast.

"Morning," Erik says, and presses a kiss to her cheek. To the kids, he says, "Come on, guys, let's finish breakfast and then we'll go out."

Magda waits until they're carefully eating pancakes to say, "You look rough, honey." She raises her eyebrows salaciously, but Erik waves her off.

"Not for the reasons you think," he says and sighs, stroking Pietro's hair absently.

"Oh?"

Erik glances at the clock. They're supposed to be meeting the other families at the pumpkin patch in less than an hour.

"I'll tell you about it later," he says. If nothing else, that will give him time to decide what he _should_ tell Magda.

It's difficult, navigating this part of his divorce. First and foremost, Magda is his best friend. She's one of his only friends. He _wants_ to tell her about Charles--he wants to confess his fears, share his excitement, ask her the questions that tumble through his head when he thinks about Charles and the future. But she's not just his best friend--she's his ex-wife. While he knows they've salvaged most of their relationship and he loves her more than anyone still, that doesn't mean she wants to hear the details of his new relationships. He made a promise to himself when he started dating again that he wouldn't pull her into anything until he was positive it was going to last.

He can feel he's at the precipice of that now.

They manage to get the kids fed and dressed and traipse out to meet the other families from the kids' preschool at the pumpkin patch. There's lots of sleepy small-talk with other parents while the kids run around, then careful filing into the hayride. Wanda sits with one of the girls in her class and Pietro tucks himself under Erik's arm, dozing again--the kid's metabolism is insane, he's always tired--leaving Erik and Magda a few moments to talk.

"I've been...seeing this guy," Erik says quietly. It catches Magda off-guard. She turns her gaze from the farmland around them and back to Erik, eyes wide.

"I...inferred," she says delicately. "I figured you'd say more about it when you were ready."

"Since August," Erik says. "Just a couple months but...I think it's...." He trails off and looks away.

"Serious?" Magda suggests.

"Yeah," Erik says. He looks back at her. There's something on her face that he can't read, but there are rules for this and he knows she'll stop him if she doesn't want to hear any more.

(They're literal rules--a document that Erik typed in the college computer lab as they negotiated their divorce, filled with provisions for how they'll deal with one another dating, remarrying, and introducing serious partners to the kids.)

"His name is Charles," Erik continues. "He's..." He can't help the smile that spreads across his face. "He's brilliant. And funny. And--I really like him. He's a grad student, studying molecular biology and genetics and mutation."

Magda's smile in response is real, if awkward.

"I'm happy for you," she says. "I mean, maybe not as happy as I could be if it's not fun times with the new boyfriend keeping you up at night, but."

She's fishing, and with Pietro still napping on his hip and Wanda and her friend giggle-shrieking over the cows in the fields, Erik can see no reason to put it off any longer.

"He has...some things in his past," Erik finally says. What had Charles called it? "Some baggage. And we ended up talking about it last night until way too late and...I don't think the conversation's done yet. I think there are...things I want to tell him."

"But?" Magda asks.

"But I think saying them makes it official," Erik says, as all of the tension and confusion suddenly click into place. "Saying them means that I'm admitting that this means something and that's...." Fucking terrifying, is what it is.

"The kids?" Magda asks.

"No," Erik says. "I mean...he hasn't met them or anything, obviously, but I told him that straight away--divorced with two kids. He barely blinked."

Magda looks impressed despite herself.

"But other stuff," Erik continues. "Just...me and my history and where I've been and what I've done. Things I can't take back. Things that make me...vulnerable."

Magda's quiet for a moment as the hayride makes a long, wide loop towards the ending platform.

"The way I see it," she finally says. "If he's really--if you really think it might be serious then you should tell him. You can't just hope that everyone you date is going to have known you your whole life. And if he's told you things about himself, then it's only fair. You can't...." She trails off again, staring out into the pumpkin patch. The hayride shudders to a halt and Pietro jolts awake.

"Pumpkins!" Wanda shouts joyfully, and the passengers begin to get to their feet and move towards the exit. Erik helps Pietro down and then stands and stretches, waiting for the others to file out. Magda comes to stand next to him, resting her hands on Pietro's shoulders.

"If you think it's serious, you need to do some work," she says quietly as they wait to descend into the pumpkin field. "You need to open yourself up to him. And that sucks if it doesn't work out, but it won't ever work out if you don't. Because that was us at the core of it, wasn't it? All the--" She lets go of Pietro's shoulder briefly to wave her hand in the air between them. "All that aside, we never did the work. We coasted on two decades of friendship. If you want this to be real, you need to do the work."

Erik's skin feels prickly and too small, the way it always does when his brain starts to loop around his divorce, what he could have done to save his marriage, what he could have done to stop it before it started, where he took such a disastrous turn. Magda, for her part, returns to herding the kids, leaning down to talk to Pietro about how much fun they're going to have and chiding Wanda for unzipping her jacket. 

She's not wrong, though. And he's knows it's far too early to be this certain, too soon to make promises, but he _wants_ his relationship with Charles to last. He wants to build a foundation. And he has to start somewhere.

But first, pumpkin picking.

"Do you want a tiny pumpkin or a _great big pumpkin_?" he asks, swooping in to lift Wanda onto his shoulders, her shriek of delight pealing out.

"Great big pumpkin!" she repeats enthusiastically, and he pushes Charles to the back of his mind to focus on finding the best pumpkin of them all.

***

Charles wakes up for a moment in the early morning hours, groggy and disoriented, when the mattress shifts beneath him. 

"Go back to sleep," Erik whispers. His voice is still gravelly with sleep, but Charles feels more than he hears in the words--Erik's affection, his trust, a blanketing warmth that lingers even once his lips pull away from Charles' temple, where they've left a parting kiss. Content, Charles mumbles something in reply, then closes his eyes and drifts off again.

When Charles wakes a second time, it's to a silent, still apartment. He lingers in bed, though there are weekend chores to see to and breakfast to be made. Last night hangs in the forefront of his mind, and he finds himself cringing in memory of his helplessness, his need to be rescued.

It's ridiculous. If Moira or Raven was in his position, he would shout at them for thinking that, saying that about themselves. It's not a sin to ask for help.

But still.

He covers his eyes with one hand and sighs, the soft exhalation loud in the silence of the morning. He supposes he'll have to deal with the fallout later this evening. Until then, there's work to be done.

He takes a long shower, longer than he's accustomed to, and decidedly spends his time sitting under the spray thinking about what he needs to do today instead of everything he said to Erik last night. Laundry, grading, running the dishwasher. He should really review the notes from the guest lecture he attended on Wednesday if he's going to include elements of it in the article he has to write for the Alumni newsletter. He promised Raven a call this weekend too, and it's been forever since he had a chance to really talk to Moira for more than a few stolen minutes.

A to-do list. That does not involve second-guessing last night's confessions or the things he knows he has to say to Erik tonight.

When he turns off the water, he allows himself one moment to wallow, to worry about what's coming next, to wonder how Erik is going to react, to hope that Erik is as good as Charles imagines him to be and will look past Charles' vulnerabilities. Erik, Charles already knows, is a man who values strength and determination. He hopes he hasn't forever damaged his image in Erik's eyes.

He wallows for just that one moment, then pulls down a towel and begins to dry himself off. Erik won't be back for hours yet and there's plenty to do to pass the time.

***

By the time the sun is setting, Charles is proud of all he's accomplished--his laundry is done, his dishwasher has been run twice, and he's caught up on grading and reading. He talked to both Raven and Moira for about an hour each in the afternoon, and now he's sitting in front of his computer, staring at a blank document and willing himself to write the article that needs to be finished by the end of next week. 

He's barely thought about Erik at all. Barely.

He's resisted, too, popping in on Erik's mind to see how he's feeling, what he's doing, where he is. He knows, from their conversation yesterday afternoon, that the kids' preschool was doing a group outing to a pumpkin patch, but that was hours ago, now. They must have been home for a bit--Erik's children are two, two-year-olds should be in bed by now, shouldn't they? Charles is almost certain. Erik implied he'd be back for dinner, but it's inching further and further past the dinner hour. That means he should be calling soon, right? 

If he's still coming over.

As if summoned by Charles' dark thoughts, the phone begins to ring. The cordless is sitting next to Charles' computer, and he makes himself wait until the second right to pick it up.

"Hello?" he asks, though the caller ID clearly displays Erik's ex-wife's name and number.

"Hey," Erik says quietly. "I know it's a little past dinner time, but do you still want me to pick something up before I come by?"

Charles breathes out quietly and closes his eyes. 

"Sure," he says. "I, ah--lost track of time. I haven't eaten yet."

"I wish you wouldn't do that," Erik says with an aggravated sigh. Erik has always said that in the time they've known each other. Erik has always picked at Charles' terrible personal habits. It's not something that's started just since last night.

"I know," Charles says lightly. "Alas."

"Pizza?" Erik asks.

"Perfect," Charles says. Then, hesitantly, "I'll see you soon, then?"

"I'll call it in now," Erik says. "It'll probably be, what, fifteen minutes for pizza? And five to get there and then fifteen more to get back to you, so half an hour or so?"

"I'll set the table," Charles says. "I'll see you soon."

"Yeah," Erik says. "I--yeah."

They say goodbye and Charles hangs up the phone, then leans over and rests his forehead on his desk. This is either going to be wonderful or horrible, he honestly can't tell which yet.

He sets the table and takes out a bottle of wine. Is that presumptuous? Erik only really drinks if he's staying over. But Charles wants a drink--Charles thinks he might _need_ a drink--so on the table it stays. All that's left is for Charles to sit at the table, drumming his fingers on the countertop, until he feels Erik pop into his mental perimeter about a quarter of a mile out. Erik is both anxious and anticipatory, not unlike Charles. It makes something in Charles loosen and relax, and by the time Erik parks his car and makes his way inside with a pizza and his duffel bag, Charles feels much less anxious himself.

Erik locks the door behind him and places his duffel bag on the couch before joining Charles in the kitchen.

"Thank you for dinner," Charles says automatically. "How much do I owe you?"

"You can get it next time," Erik says. He places the pizza on the table, then leans over to kiss Charles hello. He smells good--when he comes over right after seeing his kids, sometimes he smells like apple juice and play-doh. Obviously he's stopped home first, showered and shaved. It makes Charles confident that everything is going to be okay in the same way his duffel bag does.

"So," Erik says, sitting down at the table across from Charles. "Do you want to get your car tonight after dinner or tomorrow morning?"

"Are you spending the night, then?" Charles asks, looking down at his plate and aiming for casual. 

"I--I mean, if that's okay with you?" Erik says. "I normally stay over Saturday nights, so I just assumed--I mean, if you'd rather I didn't?"

"No!" Charles says quickly, shedding his faux-indifference. "No, I definitely--I mean, I just thought, maybe you wouldn't want to stay?"

They look at each other for a moment, panicked and tense--and then just as quickly dissolve into laughter. Something about seeing his own fear reflected back at him eases Charles' anxieties enough to unknot the tense muscles in his back. He smiles and takes a sip of his wine and reminds himself for the five hundredth time that anyone who would throw him over for any of his issues isn't worth being with in the first place.

"Okay, I think we're both a little wound up," Erik says. He reaches for the wine bottle and pours himself a glass, which probably answers the 'when are we going to pick up the car?' question.

"Possibly," Charles says, still smiling. "I just--there are so many things I want to tell you. And I've had all day to think about them. To obsess. I hate leaving things hanging. I really hate it. I know everyone says 'never go to bed angry,' but I really live it. It used to drive my sister and my best friend batty when we were younger. I hate the not knowing. I'd rather just say what needs to be said."

"Well, sometimes it takes me a little while to figure out what needs to be said in the first place," Erik admits. "But I'll try--I don't want to leave you wondering or upset or angry out of spite. That was--uh, Magda reminded me today that was something that was a stumbling point with the two of us. We didn't talk. We just let things linger and guessed at each other's feelings. It's one of many reasons our marriage was never going to work, and if I want other relationships to work, I know I need to...say things. Speak my mind. And I'm working on it."

Charles clears this throat.

"Well, it sounds like we're on the same page, then," he says. Erik smiles at him.

"Dinner, first?" he suggests. He taps on the lid on the pizza box and Charles feels his stomach rumble.

Right, maybe he should have eaten more than tortilla chips for lunch.

"Sounds good," Charles says.

Charles never quite knows the balance to strike when it comes to Erik's children--he's seen some pictures, but he hasn't met them, and he's certainly not pushing for anything like that until Erik's ready. He never knows what the line is between casual conversation about Erik's day and prying into his family life, so he leads the dinner conversation with a vague, _How was your day?_ and is strangely pleased when, rather than just telling Charles it was fine, he delves into detail about his trip to the pumpkin patch. Charles has limited experience with young children, though he's always found himself charmed by them, but he he honestly enjoys Erik's stories about the day. His own day is fairly boring and routine by comparison, but Erik still makes sure to ask how Raven and Moira are doing, even though he hasn't met them yet.

They work together to put away the leftover pizza and clean up the dishes. Charles refills their wine glasses, and then they're lingering in the kitchen, quietly looking at each other. He never wants to do this, but he knows he has to. He knows that, if he wants Erik to know him inside and out, backwards and forwards--if he wants Erik to really _know_ him, he needs to go further. If he says all of these things and, down the road, this relationship doesn't work out, it will break his heart.

But, if he's honest with himself, it will break his heart already.

"Let's sit down," he says, gesturing towards the living room. "And I'll tell you a story."

Erik holds Charles' wine glass as he makes himself comfortable on the couch, then sits close enough to touch, looking as serious as Charles has ever seen him.

"I know," Charles starts, his eyes scanning Erik's face, his mind fluttering just shy of skimming over Erik's, "that you have things you want to say too, but I figured since I started this mess, I should go first."

"It's not a mess," Erik murmurs, but Charles shakes his head.

"It is, rather, but I don't think that's bad. I think...feelings are messy. And that's okay."

Erik nods, and relaxes into the couch, his eyes still trained on Charles.

"Okay," Charles says. He looks away, up at the ceiling, the wall, the floor. He takes a deep breath. "So. If you met me before the accident, you probably wouldn't even recognize me. Wheelchair aside, I was...loud and rude and flighty. I was...careless with other boys' hearts. I didn't want relationships. I was supremely arrogant."

"You were _sixteen_ ," Erik says gently, reaching out to take Charles' hand. He squeezes it and smiles. "If you think that was bad, you should hear some stories about the shit I was up to when I was sixteen."

"I know," Charles says, "but that's really...the point is, I'm not like that anymore, and it's because of...of what happened. It changed me. It made me scared and it made me...vulnerable in a way I had never been vulnerable before. I was frightened of the world and I was terrified of other people. I was terrified of being pitied or being taken advantage of, so I tied it all up and I pretended I was cool and confident and blasé. To people who stopped me on the street to condescend to me, to people who asked embarrassing questions at school, and especially to men I dated."

"I'm not--" Erik starts to say, but Charles holds up a hand to stop him.

"I know," Charles says. "I haven't gotten to you, yet." The next part is the hard part and he can feel himself flushing already. Maybe it's embarrassment or maybe it's some sort of internalized shame. Either way, his face is heating up and he needs to get this over with.

"So," he says, and makes himself look at Erik, "as it turns out, wheelchairs are widely considered a turn-off to most people who aren't wheelchair fetishists. And on the rare occasions that I managed to meet someone fun and interesting and attractive and then took them to bed, there was always a...sort of panic. As liberal and sex positive and body positive and inclusive as they thought they were, there was always a moment I could feel in their minds when they thought, 'I have no idea what I'm doing. How do I do this? What works? What doesn't work? Am I going to hurt him? How would he even know? This was a terrible idea.'" He breathes out and forces himself to smile. "It's...a bit of a turn-off to hear that about yourself, as you may imagine. So I found the best way to navigate it was to pretend I knew what I was doing. Act confident, tell them what to do, pretend I wasn't just as bloody confused as they were. Because...I don't know everything that works. I was sixteen when I had the accident and even though I fooled around with boys, I hadn't had much sex period prior to being in the hospital. I haven't tried everything. Because it's so much trust already to let someone see you that vulnerable and I hate it. I hate that they already look at me and think that I'm broken. I hate proving them right, so it's easier to pretend I know it all. It's easier for everyone."

Erik is quiet, but he's still holding Charles' hand. He hasn't interjected again, he hasn't looked away, and he hasn't run away. That makes the last part easier, the jump into the unknown that scares him more than saying any of the rest of this mess. Because if this part crashes, if he doesn't land safely on the other side, than all of that confession, all of that laying himself bare, is for nothing.

"What I'm trying to say is, since the accident, I haven't been with someone I trust enough to admit that I don't know everything about how my body works now. I haven't been with someone I trust enough to help me explore it." He swallows. "Until now."

In the space of a breath, Erik's lips curl up into a smile, small and private, pleased, awed. Charles exhales again, as Erik turns their hands palm to palm so he can weave their fingers together. He leans forward for a kiss, but it's just a brief one, a soft press of lips that feels like a promise.

"Is that an answer?" Charles asks once Erik pulls away, just to be positive. He's still blushing, he can feel the heat radiating off his face, but he's too relieved to care.

"You didn't actually ask a question," Erik says, because he's irritatingly literal sometimes. He's still smiling, though. "But yes. Of course yes, of course I want to be that for you, with you. Of course. I don't care what you don't know. I don't know it either. We can figure it out together." One side of his smile rises, making his expression sly, playful, excited. "It'll be fun."

Charles' answering smile is more shellshocked. He knew. He hoped. But all of that mess, all of that baggage, and it's such a relief to have Erik right here, promising him it's alright, they'll figure it out together.

"You have to promise me you're not going anywhere," Charles warns. "I mean--obviously, if you do, if something happens, if you decide you want to see other people, that's fine, but--"

"I'm not," Erik says firmly. "Not...for the foreseeable future. I...told Magda about you today."

Charles hopes he doesn't look as shocked as he feels, but he can tell from Erik's rueful expression that it's a hopeless cause.

"I think we've maybe moved on to the part of the evening where I tell you about my neuroses," Erik says. He raises Charles' hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it.

"You shouldn't feel obligated--" Charles starts to say, but Erik shakes his head.

"I can tell how much that...." He trails off. "I can tell that was hard for you. I can tell it hurt you to admit it, but you said it anyway. And I have to be at least that courageous. If you can do it, I can do it, right? You deserve at least that much." 

"It doesn't have to be tonight," Charles offers. Erik shakes his head again.

"It does," he says. "It does," he repeats, seemingly to himself, glancing over his shoulder and licking his lips. When he looks at Charles again, there's a determined set to his jaw.

"I guess I should start at the beginning and...spiral it out from there," he says. "Uh, you know Magda and I married young and that we were best friends." Charles nods. "Okay, well...we started dating when I was a senior in high school and she was a junior. And all our friends and family felt so validated. They had been saying since we were babies that it was only a matter of time. And dating your best friend--it's great. We had an awesome time. I loved her more than almost anyone. I didn't really stop to interrogate that love because I was eighteen and what the fuck did I know? Then, um...my parents died."

This Charles knows too, obliquely. He knows that the death of Erik's parents had something to do with his marriage, though he doesn't know what. He also knows that Erik went, admittedly, a little unhinged in the aftermath of their death.

"I was...I was fucked up," Erik says. "And I panicked and the result of that panic was...marrying Magda." He pauses. "I don't...regret it, exactly. Because I still love her and I love my kids and I'm so grateful and glad that I get to have them and know them and watch them grow. But it wasn't a good choice. It wasn't a mature choice. I didn't do it because I wanted to, I did it because I was terrified of being alone, and that seemed like the answer. It wasn't, and that became clear over the next four years. I matured and I grew into myself and I began to understand there was a larger world out there that I didn't have to be afraid of. She did too--I was holding her back and we both knew it and we knew it was time to end it when we did. Finding out she was pregnant...complicated things. For about a minute. I offered to call the whole thing off, to stay with her for their sake, but she punched me and called me an idiot and told me I could be a great dad without being married to their mom."

Erik shifts on the sofa and turns Charles' hand over in his, examining his fingertips and knuckles, tracing the outline of his palm. Charles lets him take a break. He's not precisely surprised by Erik's revelations--he'd filled in most of those holes in the story more or less accurately not long after it was first told to him--but he understands how much it costs Erik to explain them. Erik is internal, deeply so, and though he's loud and outspoken about mutant issues and education issues and his kids' welfare and public policy, he doesn't talk about his inner life. It means something, the fact that he's willing to tell Charles these secrets he normally keeps so deeply.

"There were a lot of reasons Magda and I didn't work," Erik says, backing up a little. "And part of it was attraction and lust and love--we were never 'In Love' in love. We loved each other and we had a lot of fun, but it wasn't...passionate. It wasn't romantic. And passion and romance were things we both wanted. But also...we didn't talk. We didn't work out our problems like this. Our inclination, both of us, was to avoid confrontation and avoid messy emotional confessions, so we did and we never talked and...you can't build a marriage on that." He looks up at Charles again. "So just doing this...is hard. But it's important to me that I do it, because I don't want to lose you over it."

"I'm grateful," Charles says. "And...I know I was saying earlier that I don't like to leave things hanging but...I think I can learn--I'm sensitive to how hard this is for you. And...I can maybe adjust." He's sure there's some middle ground between sitting down and immediately hashing every part of a dispute and ignoring it completely.

"I can, too," Erik says. "It's...we'll learn along the way, I think. I hope."

"We will," Charles says, with a confidence he feels bubbling up in his chest. "We will."

Erik smiles at him, a full, real smile, and he memorizes the moment--how Erik looks, how Charles feels, this certainty they both have that this is going to work. He's not naive--he's going to question it, next week, next month, next year. He's not always going to be this certain. But he'll hopefully have this memory to remind him that he can be.

"There's more," Erik says. "And it's...embarrassing. It's just--" He looks away again. "Um, okay. In high school, I told Magda that I thought I might...be attracted to men. I didn't have a word for it. I was confused. I told her and I told her I didn't think I was gay, because I had girlfriends and I was attracted to them and I liked having sex with them. But I didn't know what I was. And eventually I learned the term 'bisexual' and after we broke up she...suggested I date some guys. I think--" Erik pauses and then looks at Charles, dead on, serious. "I don't want you to get the wrong idea about her. I don't want you to--she's great. She's wonderful. She's so supportive of me dating. But I think she understood the idea of bisexuality even less than I did. And I think she still does. And I think she thinks that...maybe I've been gay the whole time. But--" He runs his free hand through his hair and huffs out a breath. "Like I said, we're not so great at talking."

"I don't think less of her," Charles assures him. "Promise. She has time to figure it out and she's had a lot on her mind for the past three years, so."

"Right," Erik agrees. "Right. So...she encouraged me to date men. And I did. But I had never--I had no idea what to do. Because, I mean, there's porn, but--it's porn. It's not real. And I was mostly terrified. And I...lucked out, I guess. I kind of met this guy by accident and I think he was looking for a one night stand, but I sort of...blurted out that I had never done this before, that I was nervous, and he was really good about it. We spent about three nights together, all told, and it was...informative. And nice. But that's basically the sum total of my sexual experience with men. There was one other guy I met--we went on one date and we fooled around a little after--but that was it. Until you." 

Erik exhales slowly, staring at a spot over Charles' shoulder. When he finally turns to meet Charles' eyes again, he's slightly flushed and looks almost sheepish.

"So, this whole time, I've been looking to you to lead the way, so nervous, hoping you wouldn't figure out that I had no idea what I was doing. And, knowing, now, that you've felt the same way--I can't help but feel like I've taken advantage of you."

"No, no, no," Charles says quickly, leaning forward to grab Erik's other hand and then squeezing them both. "No, Erik--I don't feel that way at all. I'm glad you told me, but I wouldn't have--that doesn't matter to me. That you're new to this. Like I said, there's a lot I don't know either. I don't want you to be anxious about it. I want us to figure it out together."

Erik bites his lip, his eyes scanning Charles' face, looking for...something. Charles hopes he finds it, whatever it is.

"I do, too," he says finally, and squeezes Charles' hands back.

They're quiet for a moment, staring at each other in the dim light of the living room as the clock on the mantle ticks a beat that alternates with their breathing. 

"So this was exhausting," Charles says, finally. Erik cracks a smile.

"I'm glad it happened, though," he says. "I'm glad I know these things. I want to be there for you when you freak out. I want to know how to support you when you're nervous. I don't want you to be afraid of being yourself with me."

"Same here," Charles says. "I promise I won't judge you. I don't care how experienced you are, I don't care how you messed up your last relationship. I want to build something new with you."

Erik leans forward again, but this time Charles meets him halfway. The kiss is less soft this time, less gentle, but it still manages to feel like relief and excitement and support all the same. Charles tries to pull away before it gets too heated, but his hand snakes up the back of Erik's shirt anyway. Erik smells amazing, and the parts of his brain that have been too nervous to translate that into lust are suddenly back online and running double time to make up for it.

"This should probably move to the bedroom for the sake of my back," Charles warns him. "Because I don't intend on hitting pause to watch a movie before bed."

Erik laughs.

"Fair enough," he says, and twitches a finger, rolling Charles' chair a few inches closer to the couch. "And, I was thinking--maybe I'll just...leave my bag here? When I go back to Magda's tomorrow, I mean. And, um...indefinitely?"

"Well, I suppose since I'm not using the top drawers in the dresser or the top rod in the closet, you might as well put some things there," Charles says, a smile creeping across his face.

"For convenience's sake," Erik agrees, a matching smile on his own face.

"But, we've had far too much heavy talk tonight as it is," Charles says. "For the moment, I believe we were going to retreat to the bedroom? Maybe I can teach you a few things your generous gentleman friend didn't show you."

"I look forward to it," Erik says. "And to maybe finding out something new that makes you scream."

Charles shivers at that--the words, Erik's voice, the look in his eyes, the surety in his grip, the way his skin feels against Charles' own. He wants to say, _I love you_.

"Lead on," he says instead. He was right the first time--they've had enough revelations for the night. He'll save that one for another night. Tonight, he'll focus on what's in front of him--the lightness, joy, trust, connection that blazes between the two of them as they fall into bed. The certainty that he feels that they'll have other nights. The relief that flows through him with the knowledge that he's not alone.

The future together is stretching out in front of them. There are plenty more nights to come.


End file.
